


Mystery Boy

by proudlygoingnowhere



Series: Beyond the Garden Wall [2]
Category: Sing Street (2016)
Genre: M/M, Sing Street - Freeform, beyond the garden wall, present day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 22:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10397490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proudlygoingnowhere/pseuds/proudlygoingnowhere
Summary: Here's part two eNJOY





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here's part two eNJOY

The first two months living alone were rough for Conor. He was now under his own schedule, and even though his schedule didn't consist of much, he couldn't stop himself from waking up past 10am every day - the motivation just wasn't there. He ate his meals alone, and could hardly find anything to do with his free time. A couple times a week, he took a walk around the block, looking for some form of entertainment like a movie theater, but since it was the sketchier part of town, he didn't have much luck. Five times a week, he surfed the internet for job openings in the city, since he knew that sooner or later his parents would stop giving him a monthly allowance, forcing him to deal with his financial issues on his own. Purchasing food wasn't too big of a deal, since it was mostly takeout and Conor didn't know how to cook much anyway; at some point, however, this eating-out-of-a-plastic-box lifestyle would have to come to an end. He had called Ann a few times in distress, asking her for advice on how to live alone without going crazy, but all she said was, "You're old enough to figure this out on your own, Con. I believe in you."

 _No, I_ can't _figure this out on my own,_ Conor wanted to shout at her.  _I have absolutely no idea what the hell I'm doing. That's why I called you in the first place._

Every single week, Conor would see his mysterious next-door neighbor going out to get the mail or just sitting on his depressing front porch. During one of his many walks, Conor had overheard some of the other neighbors talking about Mr. Mystery Boy, referring to him as Eamon.

"He's a kid with a troubled past," he overheard Mrs. Cooney, the lady who owned the house across the street, tell her close friend. "Just one giant warning label. He's been living on this street for about a year and a half, and he  _still_ don't talk to anybody." She shook her head in disapproval.

"How d'y'know he's troubled if you've never talked to him?" her friend asked.

Mrs. Cooney scoffed. "With a demeanor like his and a dark, creepy house that he barely leaves, one can only assume that that boy's been through somethin' bad."

Conor tried his best to stay out of Eamon's way, and for the most part, it worked. The only intimidating encounter they had was when Eamon's mail was accidentally delivered to Conor's house, and Eamon showed up at Conor's door wearing a hard expression on his face, convinced that Conor had purposefully taken his mail. Conor tried to stay calm as he rifled through his recycling pile until he'd retrieved his neighbor's letters and magazines. Eamon snatched his mail out of Conor's hands, called him a mean name, and walked out.

Two weeks went by after that, and Conor didn't see Eamon once. Which was just as well.

 

___

 

One unusually warm November afternoon, Conor was sitting on his living room floor (which, sadly, still lacked proper furniture), when suddenly he smelled smoke. Lots of it. He glanced up at the open living room window and saw cigarette vapor creeping onto the windowsill and slowly curling into the space of his own home. Conor put down the book he was reading and poked his head out the window, his nose stinging from the smell. He looked down to see Eamon sitting in the middle of their joint driveway, leaning up against his own house. He had a cigarette in his mouth and continued to puff smoke in Conor's direction. 

"What in the  _world_ do you think you're doing?" Conor exclaimed, waving fumes away from his face.

"Summoning a demon," Eamon declared, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips. "And it looks like my oh-so-Satanic ritual has worked."

As charming as Eamon's smile was, Conor tried to ignore it and rolled his eyes at his insult. "Could you maybe smoke someplace that's  _not,_ say,next to my open window?" 

Eamon let loose another ring of smoke, sending Conor into a coughing fit. "If you're so bothered by it, have you tried, say,  _closing your window_?"

"It's a nice day out," Conor retorted. "Also, aren't you too young to smoke?" He tried his hand at a deprecating joke: "You look like you can't be more than sixteen or seventeen."

It was true that Eamon was fairly short, he looked like he was five-foot-eight at the most.

"I'm eighteen," Eamon corrected him, narrowing his eyes. "And what are you, my mom? I don't need you to tell me what to do."

Conor considered arguing back, and tried to form a response, but instead he found himself saying, "Why are you always so mean to me?"

Eamon pushed up his glasses and looked down at the pavement. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm pretty sure you do," Conor persisted. "We don't cross paths that much, but when we do, you're always angry and lash out at me, even when I've done nothing to offend you. I don't get it, not one bit. You don't seem very emotionally stable. Is everything okay?"

At those words, Eamon's head snapped up and he glared at Conor, sending daggers at him. "We're done with this conversation." He stood up and headed for his front door, stomping out his cigarette on the way.

"Wait," Conor called after him. He ran out of his own house and caught up to his neighbor. "Wait,  _Eamon_ \- "

Eamon stopped dead in his tracks and pivoted around to face Conor. "H-how do you know my name?" he asked cautiously.

"The other neighbors talk about you all the time, I've heard them," Conor said hurriedly. "Mrs. Cooney from across the street says you've got a troubled past, or so she thinks, since you never talk to anybody and are basically the neighborhood's very own Wednesday Addams."

"I'm not  _that_ depressing," Eamon argued, rolling his eyes.

"Have you even  _seen_ your own house?" Conor said. He sighed. "It's just... I don't want to keep having unpleasant encounters with you. I actually think you're a pretty interesting person, and if we can maybe have some sort of peace between us, I'd enjoy that a lot more than being slogged by your insults."

Eamon stared at his shoes, considering the offer. "Yeah, sure, I guess. Whatever." He turned back around and went inside.

"My name is Conor," Conor shouted after him. But the door was already closing, blocking out his voice.

Conor walked back to his house and sat back down with his book. His eyes skimmed the pages, but he couldn't bring himself to actually read. His mind kept drifting off to Eamon, pondering all of the possible situations the kid had been through. Eamon was a tough case to solve, but if Conor could do it, then maybe he could help him become a functioning member of society again.

 


End file.
